


The Virtue of Vices

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 50sstuck, 50stuck, Demisexuality, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Multiple Perspectives, additional pairings will crop up on a minor spectrum, multi-chapter, older sibling alphas, rating will change to m eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the August drudgery of John Egbert's senior year, Dave Strider makes a sudden reappearance in Washington after years abroad with his brothers. Eager to recreate the quartet they'd formed with Rose and Jade as kids, John is met by family dissonance, way too much coffee for kids who are so tall, and one too many problems that can't be solved with flow-charts.</p><p>The re-connection with Dave, however, is the easiest thing in the world -- and, given the fact that it's 1956, that might just be the biggest problem of all.</p><p>John/Dave || 50sstuck || Humor + Angst in Equal Measure</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. and i was like dude, is that cleaning agent or are you just happy to see me?

(medius)

What you'll ultimately remember is the jolt of the car and a slow ache, November rain washing your car windows blue and bathing the city lights below in a gauzy firefly nimbus, and _Jesus Christ,_ he says, _if that isn't a downpour then I guess I just don't belong in Washington._ Sprawled beneath the drop-off, the suburban slope of your neighborhood falls below your sightline in increments, liberated of individuality. You put your hand on the shift and and he puts his hand over it, says to stay for a while and says it so low that it nearly fades into the insistent _beat-beat-beat_ of the heater. The clearing is empty: no other cars, nothing on the radio, just the sound of the heater and the bite of the rain on your windshield and the warmth of his hand on yours.

His fingers are taught across your own, fretted and wavering like the coil of a violin string, and you close your eyes to the blue of the darkening year.

* * *

(genesis)

Something you'll never tell Rose is that you actually first see Dave again when you both reach for the same movie poster ( _Bride of the Monster_ , god you love Ed Wood) and nearly end up breaking each other's hands in your enthusiasm. In your defense, you actually don't recognize him at first; it's only after you let out a startled, “Oh, sorry!” through the (stinging) hand at your mouth that you notice the tiny chip in one of his front teeth and the deluge of freckles over his face. You cut off whatever he's about to say with “Wait a minute – Dave?”

His eyebrows are visible over the frames of his obnoxiously big shades for all of half a second before disappearing up into his hairline, and you take that time to look at his hand, at the movie poster in between you, back at him. “You like Ed Wood, too?” Wow, you guess your incredible taste in cinema must have rubbed off on him when you were kids, because Rose and Jade both lack the sophistication to appreciate a good flick when they see it. You're suddenly irritated that Rose didn't tell you he was back before; you could use a movie buddy who didn't need to be dragged to the car with the jaws of life.

Dave shakes his head like he used to when you would get back from the community pool (except for the one time he didn't and got an ear infection), and he doesn't smile. “Jesus Christ, you'd think I'd remember the only person with bad enough taste in movies to actually want an Ed Wood movie poster. What's shakin, Egbert.”

There's a little lag before he says your name, a ripple in the way he talks that reminds you how long it's been since you've seen him. Your memories of him are muted and rain-soaked, a soggy yellowing book with half the words faded or missing, and suddenly you feel starkly bizarre, flapping your jaws at this guy like you're best friends just because you played by the river a few times when you were kids and you think he might have wet your bed once. You should probably just make a grab for the movie poster and abscond before you embarrass Rose. Without meaning to, that is.

Then again, there really isn't an excuse for insulting a man's honor like that.

“Um, yeah, except for the part where _Bride of the Monster_ is one of the best films of all time and you are mind-blowingly wrong in every way possible.”

Dave snorts – still doesn't smile, but he leans against the sales rack behind him in some odd distortion of casual. You think he might be trying to look cool, but instead he just looks kind of ridiculous. (Especially with those toddler onesies on the rack he's leaning on, now that you think of it, and maybe you should give him your _The Conqueror_ poster so he has some inkling of how to look not-like-a-total-dweeb.) “You made me watch _The Babe Ruth Story_ four times when we were kids, dude,” Dave says, and you're glad he does, because you'd almost forgotten about that movie! “And you cried at the end every single time.”

“Duh. It's only the most heartwrenching moment in all of film history.” When Babe delivered on his promise to hit the last homerun and cured that kid of cancer, oh God, you're going to tear up – “Are you saying you didn't?”

“Nah, man, my eyes were drier than Rose's fresh-ironed knickers after homecoming.”

“Pfft, if I didn't so know you were lying I'd tell her you – wait a minute, does Rose know you're here?”

“What, has she not been flinging fireballs out of her _City Hospital_ -approved scalpel nails this past week?” His shoulders shake once, sharply, which you think is supposed to be a laugh. “Considering I'm kicking her out of her room, yeah, she knows.”

You blink. “Uh, no offense, I'm sure you are just as tight as two cousins could be given how fondly you both talk about each other, but Rose wouldn't let anyone have her room. I think she'd probably rather die, actually? So you might want to start looking into hotels or something.”

“It's a work in progress.”

“Whatever you say.” (He's not going to get her room.) “That _would_ explain why she's been in such a shit mood all week – wow, I feel kinda bad for putting salt in her drink just for snapping at Jade now.”

There's a pause, and you half-expect him to do that weird sharp-shrug again that's all bony clavicle and jerking shoulders, but then he laughs, a confetti-bright pop that unfurls quickly and goes just as fast. You grin at him, in equal parts because he found your prank funny (a rarity) and because he stopped being a total weirdo for two seconds because of something you did (maybe not a rarity, who knows, but a victory is a victory).

“John?” And oops, that's not Dave, that's your dad, whose butter you were supposed to be getting when you saw a totally radical Ed Wood poster.

“Shit,” you say, head whipping around in search of butter. “Uh, I gotta go – I'll see you, Dave!” You get all of three steps away before you whirl back around, because “Wait a minute, if you don't like Ed Wood, why do you want that p--”

You think you see his lips twitch as he twirls the poster around (and carry it over his back, oh God, that is so lame), but he catches the tremor like it's something falling and his face is all smooth forced apathy again, enough that you wonder if you imagined the crack. “Later, Egbert,” he calls over his shoulder.

You are going to get that poster, if only to save some poor soul from making the terrible misconception that Dave is actually cool.

* * *

After your dad has admonished you for lagging on your “sonly duties” (whatever that means) and you've made it up to him by putting groceries away, you clatter down the apartment stairs and into the bakery kitchen. Truth be told, you're normally more inclined to avoid it; the sheer number of people flitting about is enough to set you on edge, dozens of hands worrying at arrangements with hummingbird strikes akin to kung-fu exercises, and for all the wholesome advertizing that your dad runs you're pretty sure you learned most of the curse words in your vocabulary during Saturday afternoon rush.

But it's only Sunday, so pardoning a few people looking for some extra change in their pocket, today it's just Jane doing preparations for the coming week. “Delivery for Miss Crocker!”

Jane looks up from the fondant she's currently up to her wrists in, forearms finely dusted with flour, and she smiles at you – it's fleeting, but you're almost glad, because the smiles she gives the photographers during formal company shoots are slightly manic in their wideness and carefully calibrated to charm. It works (not surprisingly, given how well products sell), so you guess any hopes of a career as an advertizing executive have crashed prematurely, but you like the thin press of her genuine smile much better. It helps that this one doesn't make her look like she's about to force-feed you an entire cake in one bite.

“What is it, John?” she asks as you plop the bag down on the counter next to her. You're not exactly the baker that she and your dad are, but you've worked with fondant enough times to know she isn't getting her hands free any time soon. You go to put away the sack of flour inside with a dramatic huff.

“There's vanilla extract in there too,” you say, then pause, eying the rows of unprepared arrangements with mistrust. “Also, I kind of need a favor.”

She fixes you with a frank look.

“It's nothing big!” you assure her, and ugh, that look reminds you why she's able to take so much control over the company in spite of only being twenty. (And, well, a woman, but few people are more aware of that than Jane, and so far she hasn't seemed to let it hinder her.) “I just need you to whip up a devil's food cupcake. Maybe with marshmallow filling? It's important.”

And suddenly she's brisk, all business, and dammit, you're going to have to do this the hard way. “I have a lot to do today,” she says. “I don't know if I'll have time.”

“It's for Rose – no, don't look at me like that, we are _just friends, Jane_ , I just spilled salt into her drink and now she's mad because she may or may not have other stuff going on that I didn't know about before.”

Her expression toes the line between proud and disproving. “What sort of 'stuff?'”

“Her cousin's back in town.”

“Oh!” She stops kneading the fondant to look at you for a moment, a sign of remarkable restraint. “Just Dave, or is Dirk here, too?”

“Uh, I actually don't know? I just ran into Dave at the store – he took the _Bride of the Monster_ poster they were selling and he doesn't even like the movie, can you believe that --” (You pointedly ignore her eye-roll because it is _the best movie ever_ okay) “and he said he was going to be living with her now or something. So that explains why Rose has been such a square this week, but she didn't say anything, so how was I supposed to know, jeez.” Yeah, okay, you sound like a dick, but it's not your fault!

She sighs exasperatedly at you, but you can see that you've piqued her interest a little. Thank God your dad bought her all those detective stories when you were kids. “You know, John, for all that enthusiasm you have around other people, you have the empathy of a brick wall.” She lets out this little owlish giggle like she always does when she insults someone she's fond of, accentuated in nature by the roundness of her glasses. “But if the Striders – one or all three – are bunking with poor Rose, she's going to need more than a cupcake. I'll whip her up a double-layer cake lickety split – single tier, goodness, don't look at me like I'm some sort of menace with a whisk – and you can take it to her before school tomorrow.”

You beam at her.

“After you take care of those arrangements on the back wall for me, that is!”

Your smile hits the floor.

She just laughs, because older sisters are universally a bunch of frustrating figures, then goes back to taming the gloopy mess in her hands. “Oh, and John?”

“What?” you grumble, because you're not going to be able to listen to _Fibber McGee and Molly_ on the radio with Jade tonight if you're stuck here doing arrangements.

“Don't tell Rose you saw Dave. You know how she sees ulterior motives in everything – best to just keep it a simple apology cake.”

You pause. “Duh, Jane, she's my friend, too. I totally knew that.” You totally did not know that.

“Of course you did. Now cup some flour into this fondant before you get started – the Hornbecks' wedding cake is going to be iced with glue if you don't, hoo hoo!”

* * *

 Come lunchtime, you've officially seen Dave free of supermarket context, and by the time your butt hits the seat next to Rose you feel like you're about to burst. “So your cousin's back.”

“Hmm.”

Rose has a distinctive _hmm_ – or rather, she has a range of distinctive _hmm_ s, something that Jade had dubbed (affectionately) “a dictionary of monosyllables” and you had dubbed (less affectionately) “Martian.” When you were five, you thought it meant she didn't like you; when you were seven, your translation skills were rusty enough that you kissed her on the mouth and nearly got your nose broken in the process. Nowadays, you're pretty much – well, okay, you still fumble, but you know enough to recognize that particular _hmm_ as “Excellent sleuthing skills, John, now shut up.”

You take a bite of your sandwich, scuffle your shoes on the lunchroom floor. “I mean, that's pretty crazy stuff! Stuff that you, uh, didn't mention before.” You try your best to keep the offended touch out of your voice, really, it just ends up worming its way through anyway. “Are you okay with this?”

Well, it never hurts to check.

“Crazy indeed,” she says mildly, but the gaze she fixes with is nothing short of sharp. “And trust me, John, were I anything less than indiscriminately 'okay with this,' I'm certain you'd be the first to pry it out of me.”

You narrowly avoid the urge to drop your sandwich and break out your fingers; even without the counting aid, you're pretty sure that came close to breaking the fatal Seven Syllable Line. Discounting the realm of English essays and classroom debates, where the name of the game is basically “shoehorn in as many SAT words as you can per sentence,” _that_ particular territory hasn't been breached since a rogue science experiment of Roxy's sent Mrs. Lalonde to the hospital four years ago.

Rose is not okay with this.

Unfortunately, if you want to keep your fingers in tact, you're going to have to let her simmer a little while longer.

The cake had made her smile a little, at least, and her mood had been softened enough that she was fairly normal on the walk to school. You're guessing Dave's schedule must've intersected hers at some point, though, because she's practically a thunderstorm across the table, now. For all her bookworm's vocabulary, Rose is usually content to cut up with you (she's sort of an enormous dork, and you're honestly kind of proud to know that given that everyone else seems borderline afraid of her) during lunch, so you're guessing this is your cue to beeline for another topic.

You think that maybe another cake is in order, but the thought that you're turning into your dad is enough to send that idea to its fiery demise.

The rest of lunch period is filled with a similar tension, but it's mostly one-sided; you've known Rose long enough to know that you can tease her through the occasional moods without serious threat to your extremities. Overall, you manage to get three smiles and a laugh out of her. Not exactly impressive, but given that your were interrupted by some kid handing out buttons for Terezi Pyrope's senior-class-president campaign, it's nothing you can't work with.

That is, until you arrive at your next class together.

You really don't want to dissect a frog with your best friend when she's currently doubling as a walking active volcano.

Still, you put on your best soldier's smile as you gather supplies from the front of the lab, an expression which is apparently dashing enough to get another laugh out of her. Truth be told, you're kind of bummed out about this! You mean, you're upset that Rose is upset, obviously, but Jade had you so jazzed about all this frog stuff that you were actually looking forward to this lesson. Well. Maybe not looking forward to it, but at least somewhat interested.

It's probably stupid, but the intensity of Rose's mood has actually got you sort of... surprised? They got along great when you were all kids – all of you did, and Jade, too – and sure, it's been a couple of years, but it's weird that she's so upset. Especially since it's... well, Dave?

Your memory isn't the best, especially given that it's been – what, seven years now? Eight? – but you know Dave was never some bully. You two actually got along really well, if you're remembering right, _exceptionally_ well, and he had a bit of a smart (rambling) mouth, and he read Rose's diary once which was kind of not cool, but overall he was a good kid.

And when you ran into him at the store, he seemed startlingly similar; he still held himself like he wished he knew what he was doing, taller and leaner but still caught too far in the crossfire of slumping and preening to come across as striking. Quieter? Definitely. Still a bit of a smart-ass? Yeah, but Rose wasn't exactly one to be throwing stones in that direction. A raging asshole? Not quite.

Then again, the last time you saw him he dressed nigh-exlusively in overalls and long-sleeved shirts, so you guess anything is possible.

You cast a worried look over in Rose's direction where she's looking over her notes, all severe lines and laser focus and start to wonder if, hereditary baking insanity be damned, you should throw in the figurative apron (and pick up the literal one, you guess) and get her another cake, pronto. Or something like that. Rose has always been really particular in how she likes to be approached when it comes to things like this, and as you've gotten older you're afraid you might have gotten a little too grand-gesture to help her out the way you want to.

And then you spill cleaning agent all over your pants.

You exit the lab to a chorus of giggles and a dark green resignation to the fact that you're going to be re-branded a clutz until you graduate in May, a title you spent most of the past two years scrubbing yourself of after a particularly unfortunate mishap your freshman year. At least you didn't burn a hole into anyone's cuff this time.

You go to dampen your fistful of paper towels at the bathroom sink when someone else bursts in with an intensity the likes of which you've never seen on anyone but Rose, and sure enough, the first thing you see is a pair of ridiculous sunglasses. “Hey Dave.” You think you sound kind of confused, but then again, you feel kind of confused. Too many moody blondes for one day.

He seems surprised when he glances over at you, and even through the shades, the incline of his head reminds you that you probably look like you just pissed yourself. “Pfft, you're not that scary, I just – Rose spilled cleaning agent on my pants in bio. You alright, dude?”

“What? Oh, yeah, totally cool, why do you even have to ask. Keep up, Egbert, didn't your dad ever teach you inane questions slow you down?”

You laugh at him, tinny and loud in the damp emptiness of the bathroom, because his blustering bravado is so different from Rose's teasing Victorian vernacular that remembering they're related is actually hilarious to you. “Right, you are just the epitome of cool, Mister Cardigan-in-the-middle-of-September,” you say, turning back to the sink; then, because you don't feel like scrubbing yourself down in front of your best friend's cousin, “I'll see you around.”

“Later,” he says, like the first time, and you make a mental note to tease him about it some time. You're making a beeline for the door, paper towels in hand, when he says, “Hey, wait – Egbert?”

You look back at him expectantly, and he pauses, a tiny smile beginning to twitch at his lips. It's not a nice smile. It is, in fact, your favorite kind of smile, the one you and Jane share right before you do something that's going to get yourselves extra hours in the bakery. “You wanna hang out after school today?”

“I'm supposed to be helping Terezi and Karkat campaign for Terezi's class president run, but I might have time. What kind of stuff did you want to do?”

He shrugs, just exaggerated enough that you know he's play-acting. “Oh, I don't know, grab a bite, shoot the breeze, maybe plan to prank my calculus teacher?”

Your ears perk up like a puppy's and  _oh,_ this could be the start of a _great_ friendship. “...Miss Mason or Mister Johnson?”

“Mister Johnson.”

You grin. “I'll tell Karkat to reschedule.”


	2. victim of the system, say it isn't so

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose and Jade each manage to pull a fast one, Dave is disappointed by John's idea of classy eateries (twice), and John is a cocktail of tactless and dramatic (but Dave thinks that he can live with that). Borderline meaningful interactions occur in the middle of a diner and a total of two and a half french fries are lost in the fallout.

 You're fully prepared to snag John sniper-style from the sweat-soaked, drool-encrusted masses that flood the halls after last bell, but he pops up by your locker in all his sweatervest-clad glory before you get the chance. His mouth is moving before you can really wrap your mind around the fact that he found you first, leaving you disillusioned and off-guard and sort of jumpy as you miss the last number of your combination and spin the dial around again.

You slide your econ textbook into your locker and swing it shut.

He keeps talking.

“So I was thinking about what kind of prank to pull on Mister Johnson during seventh period,” he's saying, “– Brit Lit is such a drag, bluh, Rose says she has no trouble staying awake but there is no way she isn't lying – and I figure since he's kind of the biggest windbag in the school it shouldn't be too hard to pull one over on him, which just leaves—”

“Yeah, my brain's still trying to smush itself back into one kindergarten-sculpture piece after jumping into Latin a month into the school year, so if you could slow your roll that'd be stellar.” You sling the strap of your bag over your shoulder and make a mental note to invest in a schedule change.

“Dude, what possessed you to take _Latin_ of all things?” He winces sympathetically and starts toward the door, leaving you to shuffle behind him. “It's all try-hards and braniacs in there.”

“I should've known when I saw _Lalonde_ plastered in purple middle-school scrawl over a project in the hall. But seriously, my head feels like a fucking lava lamp with all these shitty conjugations and adjectives floating around inside like fucking. I don't know. I don't even remember what I had for breakfast this morning, let alone how the fuck I'm supposed to translate a page of classical Latin tonight.”

“You really screwed yourself with the Latin thing, but I _can_ tell you that you had Rose's toast for breakfast.” He's not wrong. Lalonde is a shit cook, but the woman could have served toast to the gods. “I know because she told me on the walk to school. In graphic detail.”

“Probably made it sound like some Shakespearean masterpiece, too.”

“It's a talent.” He grins, and you decide that it's a nice grin, even if it makes his eyes go a little too wide and scrunches his nose and essentially splits his face in the most unapologetic way possible. Cheshire is a good word for it.

Your feet hit the pavement to a blast of air that is way, _way_ too cold for September, Jesus, but the sun is bright and sharp even through your shades and it smells much fresher than it does inside, where cigarette smoke and blue paint permeate in wafts between bathroom pinpoints. From a distance, the school looks like a fortress, all whipping flags and imposing stature, but up close you can see the faded washed-red of the bricks and the chipped remains of a half-assed third paint job. After your first visit last week, you called Dirk and made up some fabricated bullshit about its sad resemblance to the human condition. He waited until you finished monologuing, then promptly lectured you about time zones and dorm room telephones and hung up.

(Dirk's university is some knock-off Ivy Leaguer; he had tutors rather than an actual schooling experience until he set off for Massachusetts year before last, and you're mostly just surprised he's survived so long in an environment where he has to change out of sweatpants every day.)

“What's the deal with you and Rose anyway?” John asks, pulling you toward a fork in the sidewalk. “I mean, you two were sort of best friends when we were kids!”

“There's no deal.” You press back a frown but get the feeling that John feels it anyway, senses it in the way you straighten the strap of your school bag and smooth your sleeve down. He gives you a pointed look, so you add, “Rose is just wicked bad at adjusting to change so she's treating me like a piece of gum someone stuck in her hair. The fact that I'm taking her room probably doesn't help matters.”

“More like your denial about the fact that you're _not_ getting her room. She's had it her whole life, dude, she's not just going to give up all of her memories and shit!”

“Yeah, like all those sweet nights not getting laid and writing harlequin romance in her diary to make up for it.” John reaches up to slap you lightly upside your head, but his mouth quirks up just enough that he must realize you were joking. “Anyway, inviting me to dinner only to interrogate me about my relationship with my cousin? You have zero class, Egbert. I should make you pay.”

“You invited me, dumbass, and we're not getting dinner – the diner's on the other side of town and I have to be home in half an hour. We're going to the Circle K and then I have to scoot.”

You fight the urge to balk. “A gas station.”

“The only gas station in the county that has both blueberry soda and cinnamon twists,” he corrects.

“Obviously I was completely wrong, then – you are just the pinnacle of class, aren't you? Jesus, I bet you've got a year-round subscription to GQ and everything.” He does a mock bow and turns a corner, and sure enough, there's the Circle K. May God have mercy on your soul. “Shouldn't I be the one choosing the place, anyway? I mean, given that I invited you and that I'm getting you out of doing some campaigning bullshit that in all likelihood would blow like all hell.”

“Shh, who's helping who prank their calculus teacher?”

Oh, right.

You guess that is technically a thing he is helping you do.

Still, there is just no way. You can't go into a Circle K to hang out with someone. You can't. To do so would breach such legendary levels of uncoolness that you don't think even Dirk could manage to justify his way out of doing it. You're not doing it. You're not.

He holds the door open for you with an exaggerated eyebrow-waggle.

With a note of resignation you step into the Circle K.

* * *

 Over the course of the half hour, you learn that blueberry soda is disgusting (“There's a reason this is the only place in the county that serves it, dude, holy shit.”), that John smokes (“I thought you had asthma? Hell no I don't want one, these lungs are worth more than your average tar-catchers, thanks.”), and that your woeful levels of inexperience in the art of pranking mean you two are going to have to actually _get_ dinner tomorrow (“Hey, I wasn't the one derailing the conversation, dickstain, and you owe me dinner anyway – yeah yeah, I get that the diner is technically your dad's competition, but the thing is that I don't actually care and neither do you so what does it matter.”), though you don't actually get to see the bakery again.

“I'm already late getting home,” John explains, smoothing back his hair. It immediately sticks back up, but you doubt he minds; John is something of a perpetual study in motion, constantly animated with no real purpose. A carry-over habit from when you were kids and less annoying than it ought to be. “If I brought someone back without permission, my dad would just be upset he didn't have anything for you to eat! I'll walk you back, though, since you were so dapper as to pay for my super delicious (shut _up_ , Dave) soda.”

By the time you get home, you've sucked down the rest of your soda (regular Coke, since you don't have mutant fucking tastebuds like John) and are about to make a mad dash for the bathroom when there's a knock on the door. Normally you wouldn't particularly give a shit, and for a second you don't. It's probably just another salesmen or Boy Scout or whatever the fuck; you actually pick up the pace so Bro doesn't try and make you answer it like he always does. Hanging with John was cool and all, but you've been out of the house for going-on-ten hours now and the last thing you want to do is make nice with some stranger hovering on the edge of the threshold like some plastic suburban vampire.

“It's for me, one minute!” Rose calls from upstairs, and you hear her door slam shut followed by a rapid succession of feet hammering the stairs.

You leap for the door as fast as you can.

When you swing open the door, you're greeted by high-waisted shorts and a flowery top and, “Jesus H. Dick, Harley, it's like the next Ice Age out there and you're dressed like a stripper on her day off, aren't you fucking freezing?”

“Hey!” she says with an indignant huff, and oh, yeah, you haven't seen her in like seven years, that probably wasn't the best choice of greeting. “I _am_ a stripper now and it _is_ my day off, asshole. Not all of us can have the time for a part-time job  _during_ the day, thank you very much.”

Holy shit, what.

“Holy shit, what.” You're an idiot, you're a fucking idiot, you haven't seen any of these people since you were like ten, just because you and John fell right back into getting along didn't mean you could do the same with everyone—

Her look of distress dissolves into a peal of raucous laughter, and yeah, not even 60 seconds in and she's got you good. Nice going, Strider.

“Oh yeah, fuckin hilarious,” you grumble as she tackles you into a hug. You still haven't gotten any taller than her, the amazon, but you've caught up significantly enough that you're nearly blinded by her enormous mane of corkscrew curls when she wraps her arms around your neck.

“Welcome back, Dave!” She pulls back a little and bops your forehead with her own affectionately, close enough that you can see the tiny mat of freckles over her dark skin. “We need to hang out some time soon, okay? I want to hear all about the adventures you and your brothers had.”

“You're here now, aren't you?” You gesture broadly. “The house is our oyster. It's kind of a shitty oyster, to be honest, one with a bunch of boxes and shit everywhere and a permanent carpet of packing peanuts because let's face it, Bro's not going to hire a maid and I'm not going to clean it up, but it's an oyster nonethele--”

“Dave,” she says, rolling her eyes. She's got pretty ones, definitely the greenest you've ever seen on a black person and maybe on anyone at all, even if they are hidden behind a pair of round specs even after all these years. “I'm kind of here for Rose right now, duh!”

“ _Duh_ indeed.” And speak of the Devil, there's Rose coming down the last few steps; she must have been eavesdropping, with timing like that. She brushes past you, polite in her terrible way, then nods her goodbye as she links arms with Jade. “Not to tear you two away from a homecoming ceremony for the ages, but Jade and I do have plans.”

“Oh, I wouldn't dream of interrupting, don't worry.” you assure her as they take one back-step out of the house. You're not really sure what the societal acceptance level is like around here, but you're pretty sure a white girl and a black girl walking around outside going to be frowned upon by most of the town. You have to stifle the sudden rush of respect you have for both of them before it gets weird. “Considering all the econ bookwork I have to catch up on, I'd say I'm going to have as much of a bash as Jade is tonight.”

“Exquisite. Don't turn the pages too vigorously, as putting your wrist out of commission is something I'm sure none of us – least of all you – is keen on happening.”

You.

You don't have a comeback to that better than “No, you.”

Shit.

“Have a great time, Jade. Eat a dick, Rose.”

You close the door on them with a warm glow of cousin-versus-cousin rivalry flooding your chest.

* * *

 “So you never told me,” John says.

You're wedged on either side of a booth at some hole-in-the-wall diner, and when you look up you get sucker-punched by the full drive of his eyes 100% on you. He's got poindexter specs that usually dilute the force of his gaze a little, dull the edge of it behind layers of bottle-cap glass and thick frames, but he's got it fully fixed on you now as he brutalizes his straw between his beaver teeth. “You never told me,” he repeats, “you know. Why we're pranking Mr. Johnson.”

You lean back a little, as much as you can in the booth, then tip your sightline and fit it to the tabletop. “Does there gotta be a reason?” It's worth a shot. “I mean, he's like the week-old chewed gum on the underside of the collective senior class's desk, all grey and flavorless but still leaves you feeling like you've gotta wash your hands for twenty minutes after you get too close. And I mean like rigorous scrubbing, Egbert, none of that kindergarten shit, I wanna see suds up to your elbows up in this bitc--”

“Dave,” he cuts you off, and his expression has soured into skepticism, sweetened just barely by the wry quirk of his mouth around the straw. “There's always a reason for pranks like this, dude! And stop rambling, it makes you sound stupid.”

“Fuck off.” You catapult half a fry into his cheek, and it draws a surprised laugh from him, loud and abrasive and tinkering just shy of annoying. “It's nothing, he just irked me a little on my first day, you know? Looked at me wrong, a little sinister glace-age from that lazy eye while I'm trying to get my derivative on...” He fixes you with a smug look, and you promptly clamp down on he forthcoming deluge of epic extended metaphor. His loss.

“Uh-huh, sure.” He flicks a crumb from his chicken tenders across the table, but it veers dramatically off-course from where your hand is resting. “I am totally convinced, Dave. Were we in a court of law, you would have just won the whole case. And probably the keys to the city.”

“Wiped the floor with the defendant's legal team.”

“There's an enormous hole in the wall from where you drop-kicked them all through the brick and everything.”

“The imprint of my foot will be forever bruised into their asses like the shitty spring break tramp stamp on the backside of their dignity.”

“Not!” John snorts. He sucks down the rest of his Coke as his grin swells and relaxes. “But seriously, I _am_ helping you plan this thing. I think asking for the prime motive is well within my right.”

“Lawyer metaphor's done and gone, Egbert, keep up,” you say idly. Mentally, you stutter on the edge of just telling him the truth – hand on the stack of Bro's shitty comics collection, you don't actually think he'd give a fuck. It's more of the principle of the matter, a force of habit rather than actual agitation.

“Mine now, deal with it. But come on, dude! I mean, what if we get caught by the CIA and tortured for our motivations, but I just get to shrug my way straight to the grave because you're too much of a pansy-ass to tell me your reasoning. My blood is on your hands, Dave. I hope you're proud.”

“Christ, John, stop rambling, haven't you heard it makes you sound stupid?” He leans across the table to punch you in the shoulder, and you note that a more tactful person would have dropped it by now. You realize you don't place much value on tact. “Anyway, it seriously isn't a federal issue, he just told me to ditch the shades.”

“Oh! Wow, it really _isn't_ a big deal. It's – it's actually school policy, I think?” He rolls his eyes, but his head falls a bare degree to the side. “Why are you pranking him for _that_ of all things, jeez.”

“I need him to drop the issue.”

A crease fractures his brow. “You – you want to get caught?”

“Nah, he'll know it was me regardless – not leaving any evidence to prove it is key.”

“Oh, okay. That's easy.” You practically feel the apprehension melt off of him and into the cracks lining the floor, the dramatic shit. “I still don't see why your commitment to being a douche is keeping you from ditching your stupid sunglasses for one class period, though. I mean, they do kind of make you look like a dweeb!”

Your hand twitches at your side. “Emotionally damaging comment from the fucking fashion police aside, I guess if your curiosity is really that insatiable–” You cast a quick glance around the room and push your shades up to your forehead for one blink, two, three–

“Oh!” John breathes. You see his eyelashes flicker behind his glasses, and you abruptly drop your shades back into place.

“Yeah,” you say. Re-masked, you draw a mental blueprint over his frame, over the curve of his jaw and the arch of his brows as he raises a french fry to his mouth. “Just don't go blabbing, you little shit. You know, bad for the image.”

“Yeah, like _you_ have an image.” He snorts and chews his fry as thoughtfully as is possible (which is to say, not very thoughtfully, but the impression is there). “You have more freckles than I remember.”

You almost wish he could see you rolling your eyes; still, a metal bar slides from between your shoulder blades that you hadn't known was there. “Shit, careful there, someone might think you missed the point.”

“Nah, I got the point,” he says. He offers you a quick, private smile, one leaps and bounds from his usual pranksterfuck Cheshire grin. “Now, Mister Brown-Eyes, I'm going to order us milkshakes, you're going to pay for them, and then we are going to plan the best prank in the world.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dave and rose bond forthcoming i pinkie swear, also coca cola isn't paying me for this so the soda here is cocky cola which is called coke for short because you can't just call your soda "cock" for christ's sake don't you know it's the 1950s
> 
> [tumblr](johncrocker.tk) here heya
> 
> in addition! i am currently in a musical, and between that and test time updates are currently slightly stilted. my apologies! they'll be at an actual normal rate come may, but i should be able to crank another one out before then.

**Author's Note:**

> first and foremost, pretentious latin bullshit over for a very very very (very) long time
> 
> anyway! my [tumblr](johncrocker.tk) acts as sort of a whiteboard for throwing around some ideas and background information (none of which is vital to understanding the story or contains spoilers), so any questions about the 'verse or the story etc. can be directed there!
> 
> also, there is bound to be the occasional minor anachronism, which i am not worried about, but if there's anything too glaring that can't be chalked up with artistic license (history edition) feel free to let me know.


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